


The Winter Will Be Wonderful

by Ad_Absurdum



Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Smiths
Genre: Awkward Flirting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ad_Absurdum/pseuds/Ad_Absurdum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy teaches Moz how to play guitar. Because obviously "Johnny went all wrong about it".</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Winter Will Be Wonderful

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Never happened, all slander and lies.  
>  **A/N:** The title is taken from Interpol's song _Safe Without_ (because I absolutely could not think of any title that would even vaguely fit and this was the last desperate attempt).

The guitar was calling to him.

Morrissey had no idea what it was saying, but felt it was calling to him all the same.

He glanced at Johnny's red Gibson resting in its stand, Morrissey himself seated on the sofa in The Smiths dressing room, still three hours until the gig and not much to do. Johnny popped out somewhere with Angie, Mike and Andy were probably at a pub down the road and Morrissey - a cup of tea at hand - tried to write, but was distracted by the siren call of Johnny's guitar.

He stared at it, writing forgotten, chewing his lip in thought. Johnny had shown him a few chords and though he was nowhere close to knowing how to play anything beside those chords, Morrissey liked to experiment.

And at least Johnny wasn't here so he could mess with his guitar a bit; Johnny rarely let it out of his hands, really. And even if he happened to detune it, he would be able to blame it on somebody else. Anybody else. ("Me? touching your guitar? Never").

Morrissey gently picked up the instrument and cradled it in his lap. He did remember the chords Johnny taught him; let's see: index finger here, middle here and how Johnny managed to contort his fingers into such strange positions and make it look so effortless, Morrissey would never know.

He managed to play a small melody - not especially gracefully, but almost in the fast tempo of the original - and felt quite pleased with himself.

"Hey, Mozza. Whatcha doing?"

It was Andy. He sauntered over to Morrissey and plopped down on the sofa beside him.

"Nothing."

Morrissey looked down at the guitar, holding it for a moment longer and then got up to replace it in its stand.

Andy watched him, pouting slightly.

"Why did you stop?"

"Stop what?"

Morrissey sat back on the sofa, safe distance from Andy, and picked up his notebook again.

"Playing." Andy frowned.

"I can't play guitar, Andy. As you're well aware."

"No, but... Johnny taught you some, didn't he?"

"Hmm?" Morrissey flipped through the notebook and took up his pen. "Not really."

"Oh."

Andy seemed to ponder that revelation deeply. Then he grinned.

"I've got an idea."

He jumped from the sofa and dashed to the door.

"Don't move. I'll be right back."

Morrissey first raised his eyebrow and then frowned. What, on Earth, Andy had just thought of? He sighed. The thought processes - not labyrinthine at all and that was probably the problem - of a normal English lad, which Andy did seem to be in every respect, would forever remain well out of scope of Morrissey's interests. He just hoped this idea didn't involve catnip in his pockets again.

Yes, the last time Andy had an idea, it ended in what looked like half of the population of Glastonbury cats following Morrissey wherever he went.

When he had contemplated that fact then, standing outside the band's Reno van with Andy who had seemed to permanently attach himself to Morrissey that day, and surrounded by a stoned feline herd, Andy was nearly suffocating, trying not to laugh. When Morrissey finally noticed and demanded, rather frostily, "What?", Andy confessed to hiding the catnip in the back pocket of Mozzer's jeans.

"But why?" Morrissey had asked bewildered, pulling it out of his pocket and dropping to the ground, among the more than happy cats.

"Well," Andy fidgeted a little, the laughter dying in his throat.

"You seemed lonely," he finally mumbled. Then he shrugged and bent down to pick one of the cats, its fur a mix of white and light reddish. Rather like Andy's hair.

"I thought if you had a pet, it would cheer you up," Andy spoke into the cat's fur, not looking at his bandmate.

And Morrissey couldn't even maintain his irritation at the prank because, well... it was... rather sweet. In its own completely childish way.

He had shaken his head, sighed and got into the van, surreptitiously catching with a corner of his eye the sight of Andy petting the cat in his arms, the cat happily accepting gentle scratches behind its ear.

It was appalingly cute, Morrissey thought grimly.

He came back to the present when Andy bounded back into the room. With his bass in one hand, a roll of sellotape in the other and headphones around his neck.

"Here, take this." He thrust the guitar into Morrissey's hands.

"And I'll just..." Andy clambered on the sofa behind Morrissey, settling himself with his front pressed to Mozzer's back and his legs outside Morrissey's.

"What, on Earth, are you doing?"

Morrissey was too surprised to bolt to his feet and then it was too late because Andy already had a firm grip around his waist.

"I'll teach you to play guitar."

Andy's chin dug into Morrissey's shoulder.

"Johnny went all wrong about it," he said decisively.

"Really."

"Uh huh." Andy chose to ignore the sarcasm.

"So what, you're gonna teach me how to play by osmosis?"

Morrissey turned his head a little, but decided it wasn't his greatest idea. They were too close, even when he leant away from Andy, and he prayed he wouldn't blush when their noses touched.

"Nope." Andy grinned. "By demonstration."

"Oh." Morrissey blinked and looked at the bass in his lap, somewhat mystified by the fact that Andy apparently knew what 'osmosis' meant.

"Here." Andy stretched his left hand, palm up. "Put your hand over mine."

Morrissey hesitated, thinking that if Andy weren't plastered to his back, it would look like he was asking him to dance. He quickly banished the image from his mind and put his hand over Andy's.

"Palm up." Andy's voice definitely held a smile.

"Hm, right," Morrissey mumbled and then watched even more mystified as Andy taped their hands together: Andy's index finger to Morrissey's index finger, the middle one to middle and so on.

"You should play piano with those fingers," Andy said, wrapping the finishing bit of tape around the centre of their palms.

"Long and slender," he murmured, flexing and spreading his own fingers and making Morrissey's do the same since they were now glued together. "Thief's fingers, my Gran used to say."

Morrissey breathed out a small laugh. "Yours too?"

Andy chuckled and brought their joined hands to his mouth to use his teeth to tear off the tape from the roll.

Morrissey wasn't sure, but he thought Andy sneaked in a small lick of his palm there. He hurriedly suppressed a shiver.

"You think it's going to work?" he asked to distract himself, wiggling their fingers and giving them a sceptical look.

"I don't see why not. The other hand."

It went a bit slower since they had to figure out who was gonna be in charge of the operation, but soon they were ready: Andy's palms outside, Morrissey's inside so that it was actually him holding the bass.

"Right, let's start with something easy. _Well I Wonder_?" Andy glanced at Morrissey, his breath warming Morrissey's cheek.

"Okay." Morrissey stared wonderingly at their hands on the guitar. Who would've thought Andy was such an inventor?

"Okay then. First though..." Andy raised their joined hands and took the headphones off his neck and onto Morrissey's head.

"We wouldn't hear much without an amp," he explained as he plugged the headphones' cord into a small box attached to the front of the bass where the guitar cable would normally go *****.

"Right." Andy moved their fingers into position. "String A, second fret."

First they went slowly - Morrissey familiarising himself with the thicker bass strings and Andy trying to judge how much pressure to put on Morrissey's fingers. Somehow the theory in his head seemed easier, but by the third repetition of the intro, they found their rhythm.

"Good." Andy smiled and nudged Morrissey's cheek with his nose.

"Verses now," he said when Morrissey, with a smile of his own, turned to look at him. The singer nodded and slowly but surely they went through the whole song.

"Pretty good for the first time." Andy grinned.

"You think so?" Morrissey asked, taking off the headphones.

"Uh huh."

Andy sat back a little. Not much since they were still taped together and him sitting back only made Morrissey do the same and lean against Andy's chest.

Morrissey sighed. It was rather nice.

But it was also high time they finally separated; it just wouldn't do staying like this for too long. He preferred not to examine the reason why.

Morrissey started to pick and unravel the tape joining his and Andy's fingers. When they were finally free of each other, Andy slid from under his back and put his bass in an empty guitar stand beside Johnny's Gibson.

Morrissey rubbed the fingertips of his left hand together. They felt strange.

"Ouch." They hurt a bit when he pressed.

"What?" Andy sat back on the sofa.

"It hurts." Morrissey frowned.

"Yeah," Andy sighed. "When I was starting, my fingertips were fucking shredded."

Morrissey was still looking down at his palm and frowning.

"Let me see." Andy took Morrissey's hand and firmly rubbed the abused fingertips with his thumb.

Morrissey hissed.

Andy's mouth twitched in a suppressed smile.

"I know something that may actually help."

"Really?"

Morrissey didn't remove his hand from Andy's grasp. His friend's palms were warmer than his own; it felt nice to have Andy touching him again.

"Really."

And with that, Andy popped Morrissey's finger into his mouth.

Morrissey froze. He stared dumbfounded as Andy's cheeks hollowed a little when he sucked gently on Morrissey's finger. And then he applied a slight pressure of his teeth.

Morrissey blinked, absolutely certain he was blushing furiously. He felt hot and cold at the same time, a subtle shiver running down his spine, but when he finally managed to get over the shock and concentrated on the sensation of Andy's mouth on his finger, it did actually feel better.

"Oh," he breathed out.

Andy grinned, Morrissey's finger trapped between the two rows of his teeth. He applied a little more pressure, gently biting down and then he let it slide from his mouth only to give the same treatment to the next sore finger.

Morrissey's mind went blank. Not that he had any especially intelligent thought since Andy started molesting his fingers, but now he gave himself to the sensations entirely.

Andy was looking at him from under his eyelashes and Morrissey could feel Andy's tongue wrapping around his finger, teeth delicately scraping the skin and soothing the abused fingertip.

It was surreal. It was erotic. It was impossibe to stay unaffected.

Morrissey's breath quickened, Andy's eyes holding him in thrall and promising sweet oblivion to poor poets like himself who were unfortunate enough to gaze too long into those absinthine depths. He could not look away though.

It was only when Andy lowered his eyes and let go of Morrissey's finger, that he was able to finally croak out "Andy?"

"Hm?" Andy licked his lips.

Morrissey's hand hovered close to Andy's mouth. It was wet and shiny and looked ever so soft and tempting.

Morrissey shook his head, closed his eyes and took a lungful of air.

"What was that?" he asked, exhaling.

"What was what?"

Morrissey opened his eyes abruptly, hearing Johnny's voice.

"What?" He quickly glanced around. There was no sign of Andy or his bass. There was, however, a lingering sorenes in his fingertips and a gentle arousal in his belly.

Morrissey crossed his legs.

Then he noticed Johnny was looking at him with the beginnings of a huge grin on his face.

"You've fallen asleep?"

"I..." Morrissey blinked. Evidently he did fall asleep.

"Where's Andy?" The question popped out of his mouth before he could censor himself. Not good. Obviously, he was still not thinking clearly.

It was Johnny's turn to blink in surprise.

"Outside, smoking."

They stared at each other for a bit, Johnny finally surmising something more was expected of him.

"He said you must be sick of us permanently smoking around you." He moved to peer closer at his bandmate. "But you don't mind me, do you?" Johnny flashed his most charming grin and lit a cigarette, reassured after closer inspection that Morrissey seemed back to his normal, if a little sleepy, self.

"Hm." Morrissey frowned.

"I swear—" Johnny sat heavily on the sofa "—that lad worries about you too much."

"So?" Morrissey cringed inwardly, hearing the defensiveness in his tone. That was revealing too much.

He looked at the notebook he still held, finally accepting the fact that all that had just happened between Andy and him was merely a dream. Strange how real it had seemed.

He felt an odd sense of loss.

"Nothing, I guess," Johnny meanwhile replied, a somewhat puzzled expression on his face.

Morrissey nodded absently, the impulse to act for once growing stronger. He got up, not allowing himself to dwell on how ridiculous his newly formed idea really was. He just wanted to see if... maybe...

He went outside and found Andy leaning against the brick wall of the studio, puffing on his cigarette and amusing himself with blowing smoke rings.

"You'll catch your early death," Morrissey said mildly, hiding his hands in the pockets of his jeans and leaning against the wall, beside Andy.

Andy looked at him with a lopsided smile. "I know, but I need to cling to something."

Morrissey snorted. Andy watched him with quiet amusement.

"Here, look. I'll show you something."

Andy took a lungful of smoke and breathed it out, shaping it into hearts.

"How do you do that?" Morrissey asked wonderingly, watching the little grey hearts disappear in the autumn breeze.

Andy sent him a sly smile. "The tongue is the key."

The tip of said tongue peeped from the corner of Andy's mouth and then glided over his upper lip.

Morrissey followed the movement with his eyes.

Andy saw that and blushed slightly, looking down at the ground again.

Morrissey cleared his throat.

There was silence for a minute and then they both spoke at the same time:

"Say, Andy—"

"Would you—"

Morrissey shook his head and smiled faintly. "Go ahead."

Andy flicked the end of his cigarette onto the ground and took a deep breath.

"Would you like to go out for a drink after the gig?" he asked in a rush.

Morrissey raised an eyebrow. "Don't we usually do?"

"Well, yeah," Andy mumbled, lowering his eyes to study his shoes. And then even more quietly, "But it's never just the two of us.

"Or, you know," he added hurriedly, glancing at Morrissey and then down again. "We could stay in. Whatever you prefer."

Ah, there it was; not so ridiculous after all. Even though Morrissey couldn't imagine anything more ridiculous (more like utterly pathetic, his mind supplied) than believing a dream. Or was it his subconsciousness noticing this and that? Well, it didn't matter now.

Morrissey felt warmth spread through him and his lips curled in a small smile.

"Will you teach me how to play the basslines for our songs some day?" he asked.

Andy quickly raised his head, certain he misheard. Morrissey wasn't looking at him, instead seemingly contemplating the view straight ahead. But his smile was almost delighted, Andy saw surprised.

He grinned himself. "Whatever you want."

**Author's Note:**

>  ***** \- What Andy uses there is a headphone amplifier. I don't know if they looked like this in the mid-80's, but this is how they look now and I needed something uncumbersome in the story here.


End file.
